


Workmanlike

by earthmylikeness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthmylikeness/pseuds/earthmylikeness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set five years before the series when Sherlock and Lestrade first met. And onwards.</p><p>  <i>There was a bombing that evening, in the Ministry of Defence, two dead, eleven injured - which turned out to be an accident. Sherlock had him believing impossible things these days.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Workmanlike

**Author's Note:**

> A short, self-indulgent character study - don't mind me just toiling in my own feels for these two codependent jerks.

The first time he’d met Sherlock was at a murder scene, appropriately. Three dead bodies around the campus, and a fourth one that appeared that night, leaned against the bathroom wall, and Lestrade had broken the skin of his palms when he kneeled down on the glass-ridden tiles.

A tall dark haired man had sauntered up noiselessly behind Lestrade and told him that it was the professor, and went on in a droll voice exactly how and why it was the professor down to the type of victims he preferred. As it figured, it was silent and at his mercy.

“That’s insane, you’re making that up.”

“Do you really want to take that chance, with four bodies, and another due at any hour?” The man raised an eyebrow flicking his eyes at a non-existent watch, all matter-of-fact. And fuck that was irritating, because Lestrade really, really didn’t. There would be no more lives lost on his watch.

“Shouldn’t you call somebody?” he continued.

Lestrade started. “Donovan, get Anderson down here. The professor- Nicholsson, the uh – witness, is officially a suspect, take him in.” Lestrade spoke evenly into the talkie, his eyes fixed on Sherlock still.

“I wouldn’t get Anderson if I were you, he was the one who missed the all but blatant evidence in the first place.” Sherlock breathed, staring right back.

“How do you know it’s the professor’s?”

“How could you not, his limping seven-and-a-halfs are all over the corridor he’s practically left breadcrumbs. If you simple-minded souls would have even remotely observed the walls and the direction of the blood splatters, you would have deducted the height and weight and the general attire of the assailant as well as the ring on his left index finger which left a precise mark on the mirror frame hung above the second body in the strike.”

Lestrade’s mouth would not close. “What areyou?”

“Observant. The name’s Sherlock Holmes, at your service.” The man offered a hand which Lestrade took gingerly, as if the custom suddenly seemed alien when applied here. The hand was cold and angled, much like the man himself. “and you are Inspector Lestrade, quite recently promoted, I believe congratulations are in order.”

“Oh, right. How did you-“

Sherlock turned away, speaking to himself mostly. “Understandable you’d forget, as you are often negligent where it concerns yourself, evident by the patch of unshaven skin below your left ear, and the way you talk to a once fellow sergeant, as if the address is cumbersome and the orders – unseasonable in your mouth. Such distinct tells in one’s character are of interest to someone of my vocation.”

“Find me interesting do you,” Lestrade said, recoiling a bit at the idea.

“Well, I do enjoy the odd philanthropist, they are such rare, adorable things.”

Lestrade mouthed _‘adorable’_ , numbed by the sheer insanity. He stared blankly at the sharp face standing motionless slightly above him. The impossibly pale blue eyes that showed interest, but mouth pursed in a thin line conveying detachment. The man called Sherlock Holmes looked mildly impressed.

Lestrade snapped out of it, because _fuck_. “So what- you’re some kind of boy genius constructed in a top secret lab somewhere, or have I attracted a stalker? Should I be concerned?”

But Sherlock Holmes was already bored with the topic, being himself, and was looking at something over Lestrade’s shoulder. “Maybe,” he said.

“Who hired you?” Lestrade asked, peeved at being brushed aside.

“No one hired me, I was out for supper and saw the crime scene. Thought I’d look around.”

“That’s… unauthorized.”

“You going to bring me in, Inspector?” Sherlock cut his eyes back to him, and though the look was mild, Lestrade nearly hiccupped. It was physically taxing, being under his scrutiny.

“No.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock gushed overtly. “You’ve proven yourself a man of such quality that would never allow a concerned citizen, who only wished to help, to be arrested for such small matters as trespassing a scene of crime – a quality in a person that hinders most logical or deep inquiry by its sheer irrelevance.”

Lestrade grit his teeth. “What quality?”

“Sentiment.” The man supplied, and it appeared like the concept was genuinely lost on him.

Lestrade rubbed absently at his leg. Sociopath. High-functioning, probably. It was bad to presume, he knew, but the man was obviously comfortable being a right prick about it.

“I’m so very sorry for your circumstance. Will you ask the wizard for a heart?”

Sherlock exhaled at that in the semblance of a short laugh, though Lestrade couldn’t be sure. The night had turned for the extraordinary.

Sherlock extracted a piece of crumpled paper from his jacket with eleven numbers scrawled on it, and handed it to Lestrade. “Here.” He said, vaguely bothered, “if you’re ever stuck. I could always use a good distraction.”

Lestrade looked down at his hand, and back up, completely lost. ‘Consulting detective’, it read. Lestrade thought that was probably not a thing.

“You will receive a call from my brother within the hour, be a chap and ignore it will you?”

Sherlock Holmes smiled falsely, clasping a hand on Lestrade’s arm and with a mock salute to Donovan, who was walking towards them, turned to go.

“The hell was that?” Donovan asked. Fucked if Lestrade knew.

He watched the black figure disappear into the dank London alley as his coat pocket vibrated endlessly.

 

*

 

There was a suicide, which turned out to be a particularly sadistic murder, as you do. Sherlock Holmes had turned up to complicate Lestrade’s life by that contradiction and also introduce himself to his entire team in a manner that was quite everything but modest. Lestrade counted at least twenty-three synonyms for “idiot” before the crime was solved and the culprit was picked up. The sky was brightening in the dawn light by the time it was over, all of them standing exhausted in the London streets.

“May I take a cigarette off you?”

Lestrade flinched and felt shamed immediately. It was still unnerving every time. “Fuck. Get off.”

“It’s right there in your coat pocket where your hand’s been wandering for the past hour, it’s gotten me riled for one,” Sherlock enthused. Lestrade wanted to punch him, or punch himself - either one.

“No it’s not. I’ve quit.”

“You haven’t.”

“Sure I have.”

“Since when?”

“Just now.”

Sherlock winked, accepting his loss gracefully, and it caught Lestrade tremendously off-guard. But he turned around and strode off before he could give it away. It was probably too late. Everything was too late most likely.

 

*

 

“Why did you decide on being a detective, Lestrade?”

“Why?” Lestrade mumbled through his lemon biscuit. They were at a café and it was one of those rare days in London when he could feel the warmth of the sun through the layers of clothing. It was nice, and this was nice, though he couldn’t help but find the company to be a bit irritating for his liking. But such is his life.

Sherlock shut his newspaper with a flourish and he reached for his cup. “Yes, _why_. Why do you do this?”

“No, I meant why do you ask, bastard,” he added. It seemed a bit of a pointless question for Sherlock, a man who held such social constructs as ‘small talk’ with as little respect he held towards a calculator and performed them with even less enthusiasm only when necessary.

“Because it’s a horrid job.” Sherlock placed the paper on the small round table they were sharing and clasped his hands on top of it, leaning forward, like he found the conversation suddenly enthralling. His eyes shone bright in the sun falling across him, his sleeves rolled up revealing even paler skin beneath.

“You get a phone call telling you that a person is dead, and the role of acquiring the reason for it lands on your lithe, hunched shoulders. What normal human being would possibly want the responsibility of finding out the cause of another’s death? I would think with your extensive history as a choirboy in your youth,” (Lestrade gave up asking _how_ ), “you would come up with better aspirations than such a depressing one as that. A singing telegram maybe, or the next Beetle or whatever.” _Or whatever_. This wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. Couldn’t be.

“Are you drunk? Is this spiked?” Lestrade confiscated Sherlock’s tea to sniff it, determined.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and snatched his cup back jealously. His thumb made contact with Lestrade’s bandaged hand in the effort; it almost seemed like an accident. Lestrade often forgot that Sherlock was of this physical earth and not a trick of the eye. “Answer the question.”

“Why do you solve crimes, is it to show off?” Lestrade grumbled instead, undoing his tie in misplaced frustration. It seemed that every endeavor for any form of social propriety seemed dumb and useless in Sherlock’s presence. Every effort to look acceptable in public rendered ridiculous, because it all meant nothing to Sherlock Holmes. He knew Lestrade already, utterly and completely to the bone. Everything else seemed like an act.

“Because I can, and it keeps me distracted. You, however, are exceptionally bad at this. Law Enforcement – acceptable job for anyone with a sustainable moral code and physical dexterity, yes. But. Whoever thought such a vacant mind as yours would do well in _homicide_ of all departments needs to be arrested and possibly questioned for sanity” Sherlock's mouth curled sweetly. Lestrade restrained the urge to kick him below the table, because he was not four. But just barely.

“Ah but you see, that’s one man’s opinion.” Lestrade said, raising his eyebrows in false sincerity. He wanted to get out of this building and away from this man-child, but that felt a bit like losing, which no. “It may surprise you, but some people do jobs despite not having the ability to do them well. It’s called being selfish. A common flaw.”

Sherlock looked on, firm around the eyes. Almost as if to convince him of something. Lestrade’s cut hand was throbbing in a dull beat.

“Yes, it might come round and bite me in the arse one day, but if it means a family’s peace of mind, I’d say it’s worth it.” Lestrade hid his face behind his cup for no reason. “And if that reason is too sentimental for your delicates, you can mooch off some other officer for lunch.”

Lestrade finished by biting a biscuit and looking nonchalantly away. Sherlock watched him for a few silent moments.

“On the contrary my dear benefactor,” he said finally, sounding bored and turning back to his paper. “You would disappoint me if it were any other.”

 

*

 

There was a wealthy, senile woman found poisoned in her tub, and not two hours after the story hit the papers did Lestrade receive a text that stated merely, “lover”.

Lestrade had texted back, “slow down. buy me dinner first”, then went on to investigate the victim’s romantic relations.

 

*

 

“- I was only experimenting on the incendiary capacity of tungsten carbide, when the landlord comes round to kick me out, threatening to report me for attempted mass homicide, which _really_ , as if I would allow that with me and all of my research in the room. As if I would even _think_ to jeopardize everything I’ve done in-“

Lestrade sighed against the doorway. It was 3 a.m. and he’d just got home, looking forward to at least a couple hours of rest on this day that would not end, and now he’d somehow attracted this lanky, squirrelly pseudo-intern into his home who wouldn’t leave him alone. There weren’t enough nicotine patches in this goddamn world.

“Why don’t you just ask,” Lestrade rumbled, his voice half asleep already. Sherlock turned to him eyes alight, as if he’d just noticed he was there.

“Ask me what – to stay the night? Love to. No need for a bed, I’ll sleep on the couch, and do try not to wake me before noon, I am mastered in Baritsu and quite capable while unconscious and I assure you the endeavor will not be worth the damage.”

“No, I meant ask _me_. Like a proper person, _fuck_.”

“Why?” Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in genuine confusion. “You know why I’m here, why would I waste my breath to reiterate. Your wife’s out of the city for work, and I would think you to be someone of substantial moral fiber considering your occupation, who’d allow the return favour for the one I am owed as an essential part of the solving of a quadruple murder, with simple accommodations for a night, are you so callous.”

 “Alright, how about I knock your lights out, yeah.” Lestrade growled, undoing his cufflink.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to Lestrade’s hands, then back up to his face. And for a moment the air was charged, filled to the brim with studying silence. Lestrade felt hollow beneath Sherlock’s trained gaze – see-through, being taken apart in pieces until there was nothing left. Lestrade couldn’t move, blinking mechanically back at the impenetrable mask before him. Then, the corner of Sherlock’s lips quirked up so briefly Lestrade thought he might’ve imagined it, his eyes stuck on Sherlock’s mouth, bewildered.

Finally Sherlock spoke, a bit softer than before. “Would you mind terribly if I stayed the night, Inspector?” His hands were clasped tight behind his back as if in anticipation but it was doubtful. He knew the answer already.

Lestrade wondered if this was what life would be like with Sherlock in it – around it, consuming it as it has for the past couple days. Just like this. Every moment stripped bare and on-edge, like waiting perpetually for something to spill over, something to break inexplicably, but nothing ever happening.

“I would, actually, but that’s fine. Now was that so hard?”

“Crippling,” Sherlock replied, reverting immediately to his annoyingly direct self. “Couch or floor? I would be comfortable on either.”

“Er. Yeah. Hold.” Lestrade stumbled, a bit freaked out realizing just now that someone was in his flat, and they would be staying the night. And not just anyone – _Sherlock_. In his _flat_ , of all unholy places. He felt like his childhood diary was being projected on the Grand Canyon.

“Hold on,” he muttered and rushed to his living room to find a battlefield. The place was a sty. He hadn’t even been in the room for a better part of the week.

Sherlock called in an airy voice from the foyer, “I don’t mind the mess and any skeletons in the closet are a welcome prospect – I do get lonely in the night.”

“Wow, shut it, Holmes.” Lestrade widened his eyes in exasperation, though Sherlock wouldn’t see it. (He thought strangely, that Sherlock could, anyway) He picked all of the shit up from the ground in one fell swoop and stuffed it in the cupboard beneath the telly. He began to wonder why he bothered but it’s the principle of the thing and a guest is a guest is a guest. His Nan didn’t raise no sloppy host, no sir.

He dashed to his bedroom and grabbed a few clean pillows and the cozy from his armchair, knitted by somebody or other ( _‘Your aunt,’_ Holmes illuminated), told the man tersely to keep it sanitary and non-explosive in there and retired to his room. He didn’t sleep well.

Sherlock was gone by the time he woke up and the makeshift bed and pillow appeared unused.

 

*

 

A man who drugged, raped and disposed of women was caught one evening, and not without the help of ‘that lanky strapper that follows Lestrade around everywhere’, according to everyone at the station. Little did they know that Lestrade was the one who followed most of the time.

“Clever boy.” Lestrade had offered, at the end of the night, his lips freshly torn from the struggle earlier with the offending suspect.

And Sherlock, incredibly, had laughed. His face splitting into a grin filled with teeth, aimed at the sky, and _that_ – that was another unbelievable thing Sherlock was capable of, Lestrade thought. Another deadly weapon at his disposal to be used against unsuspecting victims. And Lestrade felt pity for them all.

 

*

 

“D’you even sleep?” Lestrade asked skeptically. Sherlock had come over again, having been kicked out permanently from his flat this time, and Lestrade had found him on his couch yelling things at his tv screen when he came home from work. It had been all very terrifying and informational. “Is that something you’re even programmed to do?”

“When my mind allows it.”

Sherlock said it in a low voice, eyes flashing away to land on something on the other side of the room, inclined maybe to ward off further interrogation, and Lestrade faltered. But then he thought, the hell with it. The kid had pried way farther into his own life, and really, they were past the pleasantries at this point. Intrusion into personal matters felt like an everyday occurrence with Sherlock.

“And when is that.”

Sherlock returned his gaze to Lestrade once again, pursing his lips. Then he schooled his face to an expression of lackluster and spoke in one breath,

“When it is not occupied with the details of my research or a case, or employed by its own inventions caused by its chemically induced state.”

What. Come the fuck again.

“Induced by… what,” Lestrade clutched his leg and he was not even going to do this. Not at all. This was not his life.

Sherlock had the audacity to look sheepish through his clasped hands. “Cocaine prevalently, though it’s not the only solution.”

“Bloody _Christ_ , do you realize how much you are in the living room of an officer of the Yard right now, Holmes?” Lestrade was harbouring a fucking junkie in his flat and NOPE.

“You’re off duty, and this is in confidence between good friends do you have no propriety,” Sherlock hissed, scandalized, and Lestrade wanted to laugh and laugh and cry a lot.

Sherlock added, dropping his hands and his eyes to the floor as if it was all just an annoyance to him, “It keeps me occupied when there is no case at hand. The mind wastes when it is left to disuse and decay, and I would not let my clients suffer for it, you understand.” Which was _just–_

“You’re not making any sense. Do you realize how-,“ Lestrade wanted to shake him. He knew Sherlock had a death wish, but this was far more severe than he’d thought. Suicide of the mind, and one as valuable as his, seemed like a felony above any other.

Lestrade composed himself with some difficulty. “If you want to keep your practice, alright? You’re to quit that habit. Do you understand?”

Sherlock’s mouth made a petulant shape, brows furrowing as if Lestrade was a particularly annoying bug. “I hardly think you will have the capacity to find nor hold any evidence-“

“Is that _clear_ , Sherlock?”

“Crystal. Now if you’re done nannying me, may I sleep?

 

*

 

“What do you think you’re doing!”

Both Sherlock and Lestrade spoke at once, their combined voices ringing out like an orchestra in the hall. It was quiet except for a broken window at the end of it, howling and shaking in its shingles. Lestrade didn’t know what he was doing there in an abandoned building at four in the morning with a fistful of Sherlock’s coat and whole body shaking with adrenaline. It was a weird night that led to this, Sherlock chasing the killer of a family of five, and Lestrade chasing him.

“You were about to jump out of that fucking window, are you mentally disturbed-“

Sherlock released himself from Lestrade’s grip. “I was about to catch the murderer, which I would’ve succeeded at if your bumbling self didn’t intervene at the most opportune-“

“I saved your life from certain death, mind y-“

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t. You’re here because my psychotic brother asked you to be. Been hired as my handler most probably,” he spat.

Which pissed Lestrade off, viciously. He had to pause to control his voice. “Haven’t been hired, alright, you’re not worth any monetary gain believe me. Our interests have just. Coincided.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Find me interesting do you,” he asked in the same tone Lestrade used the night they’d first met. He met his eyes with a crack, almost audible in the non-silence of the hall.

And Lestrade thought, leaning back against the wall to look at Sherlock wholly, his dark hair and light eyes and white arms beneath a crumpled grey shirt. Two hands always clasping each other like he didn’t know what to do with them otherwise.

He was just- this kid. Wanting to solve crimes. So much so that his own safety came very later on in that twisted list of priorities. Maybe wasn’t even there. It made Lestrade feel very, very outnumbered. Helpless and without any sort of back-up in that deserted hallway with Sherlock, and he’d very much wanted to reach out and grab his shoulder, his neck, punch him in the guts, anything. Just to make sure. And to make sure that stays.

“Christ, I find you psychotic.” Lestrade exasperated. “Now you’ve got to start _thinking_ , and not jump out of fucking windows after people with guns before I fucking tie you down in a padded room somewhere, got it?”

“I’m not crazy.” Sherlock said, insanely.

“You must think I am if you think I’d let this go on.” Lestrade threatened. “You may be right smarter, but you are not a goddamn officer. You could be killed-“

“Anyone can do that.” Sherlock scoffed, unimpressed. He left Lestrade standing there, promptly stalking out of the building, already typing furiously on his phone.

Lestrade buried his face in his trembling hand and attempted to calm down, and shake out the after effects of shock and the feeling of utter distress at the prospect of arriving later than he had, or of any future impossible endeavours Sherlock would attempt with no one there to stop him.

 

*

 

“You are morbid, you are.” Lestrade said matter-of-fact. “You need help.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, seated formally on the other side of the desk in Lestrade’s office, looking much like an indignant schoolboy being told off by the headmaster. So Lestrade went on. “A cheeky fucking bastard and a manipulative wanker. And also incredibly unlawful if I’m being generous. Dangerous, definitely.”

A beat.

“And for some arsed reason, I’ve decided to hire you indefinitely as the Yard’s consultant. You have no choice in the matter.”

Lestrade knew it was a bad idea, and would lead to nowhere good but he naively believed it would give him a heads-up on whatever Sherlock was planning to do at any given time while on a case, and that would give him a relative peace of mind. Besides, Mycroft Holmes had asked him a favour, which someone of Lestrade’s rank was generally forbidden to refuse, and what better way to keep an eye on Sherlock without having to share a flat with him? He was already with a spouse, thank you, whether happily or not.

Sherlock leaned on an armrest looking pretty fucking pleased with himself. “I won’t argue with any of those accusations, because they are more or less true. But I must correct you to say that I have as much of a choice as you do in the matter.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes. Because you need me.”

Something in Lestrade stuttered. “Yes I do,” he managed. It was a strange thing to admit to, and not at all degrading, as one would imagine. It was the plain truth. The world needed Sherlock Holmes in its way.

Sherlock let out a breath at that seeming almost relieved. “This wasn’t expected.” He reconsidered immediately, “It was expected, but only marginally. The nature of my methods hardly encourage any cooperation from the law.”

Lestrade widened his eyes in agreement. “No, it doesn’t. But it’s bearable, considering the good it does.“

“Do I get a gun?”

“God no, I-“

“What’s the point if you won’t let me have a-“

“I don’t arrest you for stealing evidence or trespassing every crime sce-“

“Again, it’s like you never learn-“

“ _Besides_.” Lestrade said shutting his eyes from it. “It’s very… workmanlike”

“What is.”

“Your methods. They come through don’t they.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow into the mess of his hair. “That’s a first.”

“What is-”

“A compliment, if I’m not mistaken. Matters of sentiment are not my department of expertise, you see.”

“It’s not. _Sentiment_ , I am being-” Sherlock’s face was verbosely blank. “Fuck. Get out of my office.”

“Of course. A pleasure, as always.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue at him like a gangster before he disappeared in a flurry of dark through the door. Lestrade buried his head in his hands and for a while, contemplated the many mistakes in his life.

 

*

 

There was a bombing that evening, in the Ministry of Defence, two dead, eleven injured - which turned out to be an accident. Sherlock had him believing impossible things these days.

After a long day of missteps, Lestrade dropped Sherlock off at a bar, which proved to be the worst idea, as by midnight, Lestrade had a completely sloshed consulting detective droning senselessly at his doorstep.

“I’ve been robbed,” Sherlock laughed, his shirt untucked and pockets inside out, lashes flickering in the dim hallway light, “they took everything except my way here.”

Lestrade couldn’t find anything to say to that so he just nodded, “alright.”

At which point Sherlock toppled forward gracelessly and Lestrade caught him just in time, hands pushing against his thin waist. Sherlock sniffed loudly and hung off of Lestrade with an arm around his shoulder, and for a minute they appeared to be dancing awkwardly, banging hard against the wall.

The good news was that he wasn’t a heavy man – just all-limbs – and it was a rather easy trip dragging him to the living room to dump him on his couch.

“Until the morrow, Lestrade” Sherlock deadpanned, already asleep, burrowing further into the pillow like a large cat which perturbed Lestrade further (he had an allergy).

He reached out to shake Sherlock awake, yell at him to get out – something. But he second-guessed every move, his hands floating above the younger man, but ineffectual. Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, and let out a tired sigh instead, dropping into the chair opposite the couch.

He looked for a while at the enigma who’d wandered into and merged seamlessly with his life. He forgot how it was like before he’d met him – it was already irrelevant.

“It’s Greg.” He clarified to nobody.

 

*


End file.
